


Soft Light

by vega_voices



Category: In Plain Sight
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-20
Updated: 2010-07-20
Packaged: 2017-10-19 18:18:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/203859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vega_voices/pseuds/vega_voices





	Soft Light

_**Fic - In Plain Sight: Soft Light**_  
 **Title:** Soft Light  
 **Author:** [](http://vegawriters.livejournal.com/profile)[**vegawriters**](http://vegawriters.livejournal.com/)  
 **Fandom:** In Plain Sight  
 **Pairing:** Mary/Marshall  
 **Rating:** Smut. Not safe for work. Adult. Porn.  
 **Spoilers:** None. But set after the end of the 3rd season.  
 **A/N:** For the [](http://mary-marshall.livejournal.com/profile)[**mary_marshall**](http://mary-marshall.livejournal.com/) Christmas in July fun.  
 **Disclaimer:** Mary belongs to Marshall. Marshall gave his soul to Mary almost eight years ago. Mary and Marshall sadly belong to USA and co. But if they’re looking for new writers, I could use a paying gig.

Mary is moving above him, her thighs straddling him, her breasts swaying with each movement as he strokes between her legs, finding her clit and rolling it between her fingers. She is tense, holding back, delaying both of their gratification.

Marshall has never loved her more.

Her fingers tighten on his shoulders; rough, bitten nails digging into his skin as her body tenses and he feels the first tremor of her orgasm flushing through her. Her back arches, putting her breasts even closer to his mouth and he latches on, her nipple tight between his teeth. She likes it when he bites. He is more than happy to oblige.

The first time they tumbled into bed, she’d asked what they’d been waiting for. He still asked himself that question every time she collapsed on top of him.

Now she cries his name and he explodes inside of her and she clings to him and he feels her shoulders shaking with emotion she still fears to release.

“What is it, Mare?” He rubs her back, light fingers dancing up and down the curve of her spine. The room glows with the soft blue and white of the lights on his Christmas tree and while she gathers her wits, he stares at the silver package she slipped under the branches. When she showed up, presents in hand, he wanted to be corny and tell her that he had everything he ever wanted for Christmas and would she please come inside and get naked. But he also wanted to know what was in the brightly wrapped packages, so he thanked her and watched her play Santa and then helped her get naked.

“I hate Christmas,” she whispers into his neck. He knows this. He knows that even now, as she stares down the barrel of forty, that her entire outlook on life comes from the harsh cynicism that shaped her childhood. As a result, she detests any day that demands gift giving. Years ago, they spent Christmas transporting a witness from Seattle to Albuquerque. She crawled into his bed in the motel room and told him about the year she turned sixteen and how she’d begged the manager at the restaurant where she worked to give her the Christmas shift because it was better than being home with her mother. When she collapsed through the door, Jinx was passed out and Brandi had not eaten all day.

“I hate Christmas,” she repeats and slides off his lap, wincing as their bodies disengage. There is a blanket thrown over the back of the couch and she tucks it under her hips and leans back against the armrest, her blue eyes almost black in the blue lights of the room. “I hate it because it doesn’t mean anything anymore. It isn’t about being good to other people; it’s about getting the most popular toy in the store.”

He takes her foot in his hand and rubs the arch gently. She loves high heels but hates how they make her feet feel. “I’ll take back the iPad I got you then.”

“Don’t you dare.” She laughs and stretches, her arms above her head, her breasts jutting into the air. He is nowhere near recovered but his blood surges to the appropriate places and he wants her again. He wants her always. “You didn’t get me an iPad.” There is a hint of panic in her voice.

“No.” He knows better. A first Christmas with Mary does not involve jewelry or expensive techno gadgets she wants to purchase herself. No, a first Christmas with Mary involves getting that blanket she mentioned she liked at the Navajo Trading Post and making her pancakes to be served in bed. Marshall’s fingers make their way up her leg and stroke the tight calf. She is tired, nervous, and still working out her emotions. So he speaks. “Christmas is about family, Mary.” It is perhaps the wrong thing to say, but he risks it. He has to. Even if she is not yet sure of her intentions, he is completely comfortable with his.

“So why aren’t you back in Denver with yours?” The words are harsh, frightened Mary. Words that fear commitment. He is glad the engagement ring he longs to give her is tucked into his bedside table. This conversation alone is a risk.

“Because the family I want to be with is right here on this couch.” He hears the smart retort that echoes in her mind but she does not say a word. The shaking emotion is back and he stretches out next to her, adjusting for space on the couch, and his fingers trail up and down her naked flesh. “It’s okay to let yourself heal, Mary.”

“Every time I do …”

“You aren’t facing it alone now. If Jinx self destructs or Brandi trips and falls, you have me to help you now. You always have, you just haven’t want to accept it.”

She is silent and he waits for the tension to set in her shoulders and for her to grab her jeans and shirt and be out the front door before he sits up and calls her name. Instead she turns and snuggles into him, her arm snaking around his waist. He holds her in her silence. Waiting.

“What if you leave?” She is tired, he knows. Not only from the long day and the sex they’d engaged in but tired of her life. Tired of always looking over her shoulder. Tired of forcing herself to leap from cliffs and tired of hitting the ground at a roll and having to come up by herself. She is tired of knowing that the world owes her nothing and she is tired of being bitter at the fact. She is tired and he wants her to rest.

“Mary …”

“Please don’t promise me you won’t. You could get shot tomorrow. You could get transferred. You could wake up and realize the last thing you want is me. Please, please don’t promise that you’ll never walk out that door and never look back.”

Gently, he strokes her back. “Why can’t I promise you that?” He wants to give her the sun and the moon, but reality doesn’t allow for those kinds of giant displays of romance.

Her voice is so soft that he almost misses her response. “Because if I start letting myself believe in fairy tales, I’ll never stop.” The words surprise him. He’d expected something cynical, some reminder that her fairy tale dreams died two days before her seventh birthday. He never expected that she wanted to, for a moment, believe in something magical.

“Okay.” He leans in and kisses her ear lobe. “So let me promise you something else instead.”

“What?” She finally looks at him and he sees tears in her eyes. Tenderly, he strokes them away.

“That I promise to love you just a little bit more tomorrow than I do today. Always. Until I stop breathing.” She chokes on her tears and again buries her head in his shoulder and he holds her tightly. The next words, no matter what they are, need to be hers. He expects her usual string of insults to cover up her real feelings. Instead she tilts her head and kisses him and then surprises him.

“I love you too.”

His arms tighten around her and she winds her legs between his. He is half-hard again, gently prodding against her stomach and he wants her, wants to feel her now that she’s confessed her feelings. Slowly, knowing she is still fragile and ready to bolt like the scared rabbit she is, Marshall eases her to her back, kissing gently, settling his weight on hers. Her legs part willingly and he can feel her, damp and hot, and his cock surges, seeking the end to its biological impulse. But this coupling is about more than hurried, physical connection. This time, they know they love each other.

He slides into her, slowly, watching her eyes in the soft light from the tree. His mind is a tangle of Christmas stories and hymns professing the love of the Savior and he wonders if this is not what the whole myth of the season is about. If it was not some tangled love story meant to come together in a moment like this, when two hearts finally committed love and devotion instead of hiding behind fear and cynicism.

When she comes, she cries. He holds her tightly, his tears mingling with hers.

“I love you,” he repeats, meaning each syllable.

She only smiles her response.

It is enough.


End file.
